


Sense and Sensuality

by CrazyAce_n_PokerFace



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Androgynous Éponine, Bisexual Enjolras, F/F, F/M, Genderbending, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyAce_n_PokerFace/pseuds/CrazyAce_n_PokerFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Jondrette!” someone calls from behind him, and the girl turns around, her face startlingly familiar.</i>
</p><p>  <i>It’s the face he’s been admiring from a distance for the past month, and he can feel his jaw drop open in surprise as he registers it residing on a body that is most definitely not male.  </i></p><p>  <i>“Well, shit,” Grantaire says. “He’s not a he at all, is he?”<i></i></i><br/><i><br/><i>É/E Modern AU where Enjolras is bisexual and falls for androgynous Éponine before he figures out “he" is a “she." Shenanigans and confusion ensues. :)</i></i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense and Sensuality

**Author's Note:**

> Author Note: This is vaguely inspired by Claire’s headcanon, a few of my own headcanons, and, like many of my AU’s, general what-if-ery.
> 
> This work will feature lgbtqia+ characters of every shape and color, and since I am a cishet woman, if you have any suggestions or comments on how I can improve their portrayal, I will gladly take them. 
> 
> Also, yes, the title is modified from Jane Austen’s novel. :)

**Chapter One: The Importance of Being Earnest**

* * *

 

He’s not entirely sure why he lets his friends drag him to a nearby showing of  _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , but Courfeyrac had been particularly persistent and Grantaire had been particularly disparaging about his lack of a social life, and both those things probably had something to do with it.

He had wanted to argue that he doesn’t have  _time_  for a social life—for God’s sake, he’s a leader of the local branch of a national queer activist group, and he can’t see how putting his cause first is a bad thing—

But Combeferre had shot him a quiet, pointed look when he started in on one of his impromptu speeches, and he figured that maybe it was time for a break.

Still, when he arrives, his hands are shoved into the pockets of his favorite red jacket and his pretty, delicate features are drawn into an irritated expression. “Whose idea was this, anyway?” he grumbles.

Bahorel shoots him a wide, easy grin, crooked white teeth gleaming against dark brown skin, and slings a friendly arm around his shoulders. “Jehan knows the costume designer of this production, and Marius may or may not have a crush on her, so—”

“Bahorel!” Marius splutters, turning a bright shade of red.

Enjolras side-eyes his friend and internally sighs. “If she’s the costume designer, why are we even here? It’s not as if she’ll be onstage.”

“Well, yeah, but Jehan knows her and she said one of her best friends was the lead actress and that this was really important to the both of them and that they hoped opening night had a strong showing, and you know, most of us were free tonight, so Jehan said he’d try to get us to come, and I said I’d help, and you know what, why not go and support them?” Marius says, anxiously wiping his hands on his slacks. “They’re supposed to be really, really good. “

Beside him, Courfeyrac is grinning. “Yeah. The guy they’ve got playing Algernon is supposed to be some up-and-coming actor—dozens of fangirls and everything.” He shoots an admiring glance at a passing trio of young women, who glance back at him and giggle before walking into the theatre.

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose. “So let me get this straight—we showed up here so you could all get laid, is that correct?”

Joly runs a hand through her hair and looks at him sheepishly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, Leila and I came for a nice night out.”

Bossuet, her best friend/sometimes-significant-other, nods. “We haven’t been out as a group just to have fun in a while, so this was a good change of pace,” she says, her slanted eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles.

Feiully, the last woman in their group, exchanges amused glances with Combeferre and links her hand with his. “Let them have their fun, Enjolras. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she says soothingly before walking into the theatre, the rest of their friends trooping in behind her.

“Yeah, so stop being such a downer and get with the program, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, stretching his arms lazily above his head. “It’s even a play you like—I don’t see why the hell you’re complaining.”

Enjolras frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything more as he follows behind the others and takes his seat. He doesn’t really know why he’s complaining, either, other than the fact that he feels this vague sense of…something, an odd knot of tension right beneath his breastbone, and he taps his fingers against his armchair restlessly as they wait for the curtain to rise.

And then it does: the piano-playing starts, and Lane is arranging the tea set, and Enjolras is thinking the actor resembles one of his professors from his undergrad years when Algernon walks in.

No, scratch that, the man  _strolls_  in, casually adjusting his cufflinks and rolling his shoulders. He’s tall and whipcord lean, legs long and hips narrow, and there’s a lazy smirk on his face as he glances out at the audience, the full, sharp curve of his mouth tilting upwards as he  _winks_ at them.

“Did you hear what I was playing…Lane?” he asks, his voice honey-smooth and low, and he tilts his head at the last second so he’s addressing the old butler and not the packed theatre, though there’s an amused glint in his dark eyes that fairly decimates the fourth wall.

There’s something about the way he stands, the way he moves, the way he is that seizes everyone’s attention and holds it willing captive.

Enjolras is no exception.

And throughout the rest of the play, through the debacles and the witticisms and the quick, clever dialogue, he never does manage to tear his eyes off that arresting, teasing figure, and he recognizes the heavy weight of desire in his belly even as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries to ignore it.

He fails miserably.

* * *

 

When the play ends and their group of friends heads out onto the street, still buzzed from the energy of the entertained crowd, Enjolras shakes his head and tries to order his racing thoughts.

The play had been fantastic, but that actor…

That  _actor_.

He’s frankly never been this attracted to anyone in his entire life, and it’s more than a little disconcerting. He’s not the type to jump into relationships, not the type to just stride up to a man (or woman, but while he’s found a few women attractive, his only relationships so far have been with men) and ask him out, but with this man, he’s seriously tempted.

“Oh, God, that was such a great play!” Joly says, green eyes bright with excitement, her hands waving through the air. “I can see why you like it so much, Enjolras—though maybe you’ve seen better productions—”

“Better than this one? Are you kidding me?” Courfeyrac says. “This one was awesome! Jehan, tell your friend that the costumes rocked!”

“The costumes? Who cares about the costumes?” Bahorel says. “Did you see the actors? Man, Algernon was so fucking funny—”

The whole group starts extolling the actor’s virtues and Enjolras is resolutely keeping his mouth shut because he’s certain if he joins them, he’ll never stop—

“I don’t know. His performance seemed a little flat to me,” Grantaire says.

“Flat?  _Flat?_  It was brilliant!” Enjolras snaps out. “My God, his charisma alone—he practically stole the stage whenever he was on, but he still managed to play up the other actors’ strengths—and the way he delivered his lines. It was perfect—just the right amount of caustic wit and sly humor. And did you see how he kept looking out at the audience, engaging us, drawing us in?”

The others are staring at him in mild surprise, all except for Grantaire, who’s smirking at him.

“Ha! I knew you liked him,” he says. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off him, could you?”

“What—don’t be silly, it was just his performance. His looks had nothing to do with it—though of course his looks are fine, I’m not saying they aren’t—” Enjolras cuts himself off, annoyed at the way he’s suddenly rambling.

Jehan tilts his head and squints at him, brows raising in shock. “Enjolras, I think you’re actually blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You are,” Marius says, eyes wide. He lifts a hand and points at him. “Look, you totally are!”

“It’s not—it’s simply—the theatre was crowded, alright?” Enjolras says, running a hand through his hair, annoyed.

“Of course,” Combeferre says, casting a quelling look at the others. “Anyway, are we going for Thai tonight, or pizza?”

“Thai!”

“Pizza!”

“Why can’t we get both?!”

Enjolras gives his best friend a grateful smile as the conversation topic is successfully diverted, and the other man merely pats his shoulder before walking on.

“Don’t think I’m forgetting this, Enjolras.”

He turns around to see Grantaire surveying him with amused eyes. “Your first celebrity crush and it’s on a stage actor—who would’ve thought?”

“It’s not a crush,” Enjolras replies, frowning.

“You think he’s hot, though, don’t you?”

Enjolras says nothing in reply, and the silence and the flush still lingering on his cheeks gives him away.

Grantaire smirks and hands him a copy of the theatre program. “His name’s Jondrette—no first name given, and the bio doesn’t really say much, but the play’s going to be running for three weeks, with ten performances. You can go to another one, if you’re interested.”

Enjolras folds the glossy paper and tucks it into his pocket. “I’m not,” he says firmly.

They both know he’s lying.

* * *

 

Enjolras ends up seeing six of the ten scheduled performances, only one less than Marius, and the others tease him mercilessly for developing a thing for an actor of all people.

He can hardly believe it himself, but still he goes, and he watches Jondrette, and for a few hours every weekend he loses himself in the curve of his smile and the glint of his eyes and the sound of his voice, low and charming and seductive.  

“You really like him, don’t you?” Marius says, his expression a mix of curious and compassionate.

Enjolras bites his lip and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I like his performance. That’s all.”

The six ticket stubs he collects say otherwise, of course.

* * *

 

On closing night, everyone goes to see the show again, and Jehan somehow wrangles invitations to the exclusive afterparty.

Marius nearly hugs the life out of him, and all their friends smile at both him and Enjolras knowingly.

“Excited to finally meet your idol?” Feiully asks, flicking a lock of her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder.

“A little,” he admits.

(He doesn’t tell anyone, but he spends a whole hour trying to decide what the hell to wear before thinking, “To hell with it” and throwing on the red jacket he wore that first night, when he swore Jondrette looked out into the audience and winked directly at him.)

* * *

 

Enjolras walks into the bar, strangely nervous—for no good reason at all, he tells himself sternly. He’s not expecting anything to happen tonight; he just wants to meet Jondrette, tell him that he admired his performances, especially the one last weekend where the actress who played Cicely forgot her lines and he had to improvise and it turned out brilliantly, and also the one this weekend, not tonight, though tonight’s performance was also wonderful, but the one yesterday where—

“Look, the trick to being a successful theatre groupie is to make it obvious that you are  _not_  a theatre groupie,” Grantaire says, smacking him on the back. “So please, whatever you’re thinking of saying, stop. Keep it to three sentences, give him a firm handshake, and smile really widely. You’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at getting into his pants anyway, just let your pretty face do all the work for you.”

“Excuse me,” Enjolras replies, glaring. “I am  _not_  here to get laid, I simply want to—”

“Let Jondrette fuck you instead? Man, save me your speeches, I haven’t ever seen you this worked up over anybody since…well, since ever.” Grantaire rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You should have seen your face the minute the curtain went up and Jondrette started talking—you looked like you’d been electrocuted.”

Enjolras flushes in a mixture of anger and embarrassment, because that  _was_ probably an accurate description. “I don’t—it’s not—I don’t have time for a relationship,” he says. “I just want to tell him that I lov—that I liked his performance. That’s all.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Besides,” he mutters under his breath, “he’s probably not even gay.”

Grantaire gives a bark of incredulous laughter. “He’s a  _theatre_  boy. Straight guys are the minority,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Like I said, you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot, probably better.”

Enjolras would reply, but a girl walks by in a screaming red dress, and Enjolras’s words die in his throat.

She’s tall and leanly muscled, no curves to her at all, body as straight as an arrow and just as graceful, striding through the crowd with a captivating kind of purpose, all long legs and narrow hips and confidently set shoulders.

Her coloring contrasts beautifully with the deep, bold tones of the dress: she has smooth, warm brown skin exposed by the plunging backline, and wavy black hair that’s cut short, barely kissing the nape of her neck.

She walks with a self-assured swagger, people automatically getting out of her way as she heads towards the bar, and there’s something about the way she moves that’s oddly familiar...

“Jondrette!” someone calls from behind him, and the girl turns around, her face all high cheekbones and dark eyes and a full, generous mouth, with a strong, sharp jaw and thick brows to balance it off.

It’s the face he’s been admiring from a distance for the past month, and he can feel his jaw drop open in surprise as he registers it residing on a body that is most  _definitely_  not male.  

“Well, shit,” Grantaire says. “He’s not a he at all, is he?”

Enjolras would answer him, but he’s too busy picking his jaw up off the floor to do so.


End file.
